A few months ago, I bought a 1999 Yamaha Virago 535 motorcycle. Before buying it, I'd naturally spent some time looking at other Viragos on Facebook Marketplace, comparing prices and generally satisfying myself that I wasn't buying a complete wreck.
As it turned out, that last bit was rather optimistic.
The motorcycle developed an infuriating intermittent misfire. One moment it would run perfectly well on both cylinders, the next it would decide that one cylinder was quite sufficient, thank you. Particularly when it warmed up. At times it would barely manage 64 mph, accompanied by assorted popping and backfiring that made the whole experience rather more exciting than Yamaha probably intended.
So began a succession of visits to the motorcycle repair shop. The mechanics were convinced the problem was fuel-related, and initially I agreed with them. The carburettors were rebuilt, adjustments made, plugs replaced and various fuel-system problems investigated. Each time there was some prospect of a cure. Each time the damned thing eventually reverted to its old habits after half a day of riding.
To be fair, the carburettor rebuild was entirely justified on a 27-year-old motorcycle. It needed doing anyway. But when the intermittent misfire persisted after all that attention, the fuel explanation was looking increasingly unlikely.
So I changed my hypothesis. Perhaps the problem wasn't getting fuel into the cylinder, but getting a spark to ignite it.
I replaced the ignition coils and HT leads, which proved rather less straightforward than anticipated. The original coils were mirror images of one another, but the replacements were two identical units, meaning the terminals were now in different positions.
This caused a certain amount of head-scratching, although fortunately the connectors were idiot-proof. Even I couldn't connect them incorrectly.
Having sorted that out, I confidently anticipated two functioning cylinders.
No joy.
Finally, I replaced the spark plug cap on the offending cylinder. £5.
Bingo.
After all the investigation, the replacement parts and the repeated trips to the workshop, the fault had been lurking in a component costing less than a decent pint of beer. There is a certain satisfaction in solving something like that yourself, although it is somewhat diminished by contemplating the money already spent getting absolutely nowhere.
But throughout this mechanical saga, another piece of machinery was demonstrating its own peculiar form of stupidity.
Facebook.
Having spent some time searching for a Yamaha Virago, I had apparently convinced Facebook's advertising algorithms that I was developing a lifelong ambition to collect them.
And despite having bought one, repaired it and spent rather more time thinking about its internal workings than I ever intended, Facebook continued bombarding me with advertisements for more Yamaha Viragos.
Not workshop manuals. Not spare parts. Not even the occasional useful accessory.
More bloody motorcycles.
Perhaps it thinks I need two. Or three. Maybe it imagines I'm planning to corner the international market in elderly Japanese motorcycles. Presumably, if I buy enough of them, I can eventually assemble one that runs properly.
What's particularly irritating is that these systems are supposed to be intelligent. Technology companies spend billions developing algorithms that analyse our behaviour, predict our preferences and supposedly anticipate our needs. They can track what we look at, how long we look at it and what we might conceivably want next.
Yet they apparently cannot grasp the elementary distinction between somebody looking for a motorcycle and somebody who has already bought one.
Of course, I understand the technical explanation. Facebook doesn't necessarily know that I've completed a purchase, particularly one made privately. But surely there ought to be a little more intelligence involved than endlessly repeating the same advertising proposition until the customer dies of boredom.
An experienced motorcycle salesman would recognise that someone who has just bought a Yamaha Virago probably isn't in the market for another one. He might, however, be interested in something that would help keep the first one running.
A £5 spark plug cap, for example.
And there's an interesting commercial absurdity here. Somewhere, someone is paying Facebook to advertise motorcycles to me. Facebook is happily taking the money, congratulating itself on having identified an enthusiast and delivering precisely the wrong advertisements.
The advertiser gets an impression. Facebook gets paid. I get another bloody Virago.
Everybody wins, except the advertiser and the intended customer.
We hear endlessly about artificial intelligence transforming commerce, making marketing more efficient and anticipating consumer demand. Yet a great deal of what passes for intelligent advertising appears to consist of recognising that someone has looked at something and then pursuing them relentlessly with more of the same.
Perhaps that's the real triumph of the algorithm. It has managed to persuade businesses to pay for its inability to distinguish between interest and intent, never mind a completed purchase.
Meanwhile, my elderly Yamaha is finally running properly. The mechanics spent weeks pursuing a fuel problem that turned out to be electrical. I eventually followed the evidence, changed my hypothesis and found the fault.
That's what intelligence is supposed to do. Recognise when an explanation no longer fits the facts and try something else.
My motorcycle had an intermittent misfire, which I eventually cured for £5.
Facebook's algorithm has apparently been misfiring for months, and nobody seems remotely interested in fixing it.
No comments:
Post a Comment